


The Desert Bluffs Expansion Project

by LightDescending



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Things Happen To Carlos, Desert Bluffs, Gen, M/M, Other, Post- "Missing", Psychological Trauma, Speculation, Strexcorp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightDescending/pseuds/LightDescending
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don’t need old Cecil telling you what’s happening in town. No. I just report the news. I just arrange it. You figure it out. You learn from it. You take action. You create the meaning. It is all up to you.<br/>And, given my current broadcasting situation, it may be up to you for a long time."</p><p>Or, a chronicle of what came after, and the battle of Night Vale against Strexcorp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART ONE: Divergent Trajectories; or, "No More Angels in Night Vale"

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Although I love playing around in the world of Night Vale, I did not create it and portions of this fanfiction are (and likely will be) drawn directly from transcripts created from the episodes. I owe all credit to Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor for developing and creating Night Vale, Cecil, Carlos, Tamika, and all of the other characters who've enraptured me. 
> 
> This fanfiction contains an abundance of speculation, theorizing, and non-canonical explanations for existing phenomena in Night Vale and related universes. It takes place after the events in Episode 36, "Missing", and contains spoilers for any preceding episodes.

_Imagine the worst thing that could happen. Increase that possibility by a power of four; at least things aren’t that bad. Yet. Welcome – to Night Vale._

 -

On the day the takeover was absolute, the sun rose red. It brooded on the horizon as though regretting the decision, wondering if it wouldn’t be too late to take the day off and let void have another go. Yet, reluctantly, it gradually slunk its way into the sky, casting a hellish light over the municipality of Night Vale; though one somewhat diffused by the faint smog that hung suspended in the air – a recent and oddly persistent addition to the atmospheric conditions about town. As the sun gained altitude, copper light pooled slowly across the hard-pack paved roads and dusty scrublands. Indigo shadows deepened, became more ever more corporeal, and began to stir gently. The obelisk of the Dog Park took on a subtle gleam, as well as a sense of menacing intelligence. The ancient stones of the City Council building hummed faintly; yet the streets were empty. An outsider to the town would be perplexed, bemused, or even perturbed by the lack of human-or-other activity. A sense of quiet unease might settle over their skin like a shroud, their eyes darting about, hair prickling at the nape of their neck, muscles tensing unconsciously in preparation for a fight or flight response that might never come. Yet all of the townspeople were alert, after a fashion, and labouring hard. The work day had already begun, and production goals loomed imminent.

 -

[Redacted] of the Sheriff’s Secret Police was not having a very good day, which didn’t bode well given it was their… what, third week _officially_ on the job? Bad enough that they’d arrived a full three minutes and forty two seconds late for work, which meant the time would be docked from their paystub and they’d be expected to make it up by subtracting it from their lunch break today. Worse still that their partner texted to say “ _gonna be working overtime again, sorry, xoxo hope supper is nice c u l8r!!_ ”. Ugh. They had no idea how to cook, so it’d be cold noodles and tripe. Again.

But final confirmation that this was going to be a _terrible_ day was their current assignment, which was to go and try to convince John Peters, you know, the farmer, that it was time to get back on the fields and start working towards next fall’s crop.

“The Green Market’s not gonna turn a profit on its own, you know,” their boss had said tersely as she tugged her Standard Issue Black Leather Balaclava on. “We need that invisible corn to be top quality this year. Apparently projections are that it’ll sell nearly double quantity at a hundred and forty percent inflation or more. Dunno who came up with those figures, but the Big Folks up top’re liking ‘em.”

Liking ‘em or not, [Redacted] didn’t want to be slogging around the desert all day. It was shaping up to be a scorcher, and their combat pants were starting to chafe at the crotch.

Yet here they were. In an empty field out in the scrublands. Standing next to John Peters, the farmer. Who, in turn, sat squarely in front of an ancient looking oaken door, which itself was standing without any visible supports or frames of any sort… although it did have a rather substantial number of chains, latches, and locks draped all over it. It had taken months to realize that he was out here, right where he said he’d be.

“Look,” [Redacted] sighed. “Mr. John Peters, there’s really no reason for you to be out here.” They scratched at their head, disguising the fact that they were adjusting the Auto-Prompter Note Relay dial to catch a quick glance in their Holo-goggles. The Big Bosses had given the entire force notes to be used for situations like this. “Wouldn’t you rather be... working at your fields… doing your best to engage as a productive, happy, healthy contributing member of this great city?” They glanced sidelong at John after the recitation. John didn’t move, nor react in any way. He didn’t give any indication that he’d heard [Redacted] speak at all, in fact. John just kept staring at the oaken door, his eyes wide and bloodshot and rimmed with dark bruising from sleep deprivation. His shaggy sand-blasted hair brushed his shoulders, and an equally scruffy beard sprouted thick upon his face. In his hands he clutched a double-barrelled sawed-off shotgun. He sat on a wooden chair that was missing a slat from the back. Piles of tiny bones and cast off skins, presumably from small desert animals unlucky enough to venture within grabbing distance, littered the ground around his feet. [Redacted] was starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Mr. Peters?” They ventured, trying to inject a certain level of quiet menace into their voice. “If you do not respond I’ll have to call it in as a double-zero dash six-FTRQ, Failure to Respond to Questioning, and that’ll mean… taking you in to the station.”

“Can’t.” John grunted, unblinking. “I said I’m gonna keep vigil an’ that’s what I’m doing.”

[Redacted] stifled a sudden urge to plant their boot on the top of the chair and tip it backwards, spilling John Peters (youknowthefarmer) onto the ground, enabling them to lecture him with extreme prejudice. Sweat trickled down their neck and back, and they just knew that new brand of pore-suppressant wasn’t working and by evening their pits were gonna _reek_. They said nothing, though, because nothing like this had ever happened before in their brief time on the force – you didn’t just _refuse_ a member of the Secret Police, the conditioning therapy was _supposed_ to take care of that except in cases of extreme mental or metaphysical duress, which this was _not an example of_. About ten minutes passed that way – John Peters sitting in his chair, wide brimmed hat failing utterly to shield his weathered skin from the oppressively hot sun overhead (the hat being as invisible as his corn); [Redacted] with feet planted shoulder-width apart, hard-soled boots covered in a thin layer of dust, slowly sweating a quiet ocean across their skin under the oppressive weight of their red half-cape while scrolling frantically through the Protocol Manual to see how they were supposed to deal with… Defiance? Is that what this was? Or was it more of a minor infraction, say, Unwitting Misdemeanor in Regards to Conduct, or maybe Insufficient Acknowledgement of Authority? There was something unutterably futile about this-

They were both startled out of their individual reveries by a sudden loud thumping noise, the door rattling at the impact. John Peters immediately sat up, cocked his shotgun, and smoothly lowered it towards the door with shocking speed. For a while nothing happened, [Redacted] feeling their tongue sitting hot and dry and heavy in their mouth and their heart trying to escape forcibly from their chest, and then John lowered his shotgun again.

“Happens every now and then.” He said. “Sooner or later, something’s going to come out of there.”

[Redacted] had nothing to say to that, and realized abruptly that their hands were wrapped around their standard issue rifle, pointing it at the door. And shaking. They lowered their weapon slowly. They glanced again at the chains and locks that John had secured the door with and silently tried to evaluate their tensile strength. Wondered whether John had actually bothered attaching the ends of the chains to anything other than themselves, like a snake eating its own tail. When they believed they’d be able to speak without their voice trembling, they resigned themselves to filling out a false report ( _the subject assents to resumption of civic duty blah blah blah)_ and making a repentance sacrifice at their bloodstone circle later tonight to atone. “Alright, John, I’m going to let you off with a warning. This time.”

No response.

Finally, [Redacted] began tromping back to the waiting black helicopter, already grimacing internally at the thought of cold noodles and tripe tonight. Some days, they hated their job.

 -

_Hello, listeners. We are very pleased to open our broadcast by announcing yet another thrilling yet vague development initiative from Strexcorp. Undoubtedly this programme will continue to encourage growth and development across all local industry sectors, stimulate our economy, and will in no way imperil local government, family units, washer-dryer units, water supply sources, or local fauna and flora in any way. Stay tuned for further details as we go to live coverage of a press conference, hosted by a notable Strexcorp representative…_

-

A lone hawk passing over Night Vale in the early twilight might marvel at the strange beauty of the city as it balances precariously between two very different stages of development: the old, some would say defunct… and the gleaming, the new. Yes, the familiar landmarks are still here: the Applebee’s in Old Town, still leaking noxious emissions which curl along the ground like seething tentacles; the Night Vale Post Office, from which guttural chants, foul odours, and the occasional bloodcurdling shriek issue forth; the Arby’s, whose lights are mirrored, mysteriously, in the sky overhead. But the hawk would also see that the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex has begun to sprout a strange growth, like a gall or canker, from one side – the Casino addition. Wheeling like a great pendulum in the sky and winging north, the hawk might also see the great housing development pushing white and gleaming and opulent from the desert sands just beyond the car-lot, where the remains of Old Woman Josie’s house lie cold, barren, and burnt-out.

 A bit further out along Route 800 – on the way to Desert Bluffs – the hawk would see an eerie crop of spires, steel girding, and gigantic metal tankers topped with blinking red lights. These, if it were shrewd enough to learn, belong to the new facility piloted by Strexcorp Synernists Incorporated. Nobody is quite sure what the plant is for, exactly, but they’re certain it will open up a whole new sector for anyone interested in industry labour. Should the hawk be seeking gainful employment, which it isn’t, it would be able to find it with the plant. The plant is accepting applicants. All applicants. Including the recently downsized pencil-pushers from City Hall.

The hawk, losing interest in Night Vale, flies west over the scrublands and here is lost to us – much like Old Woman Josie is. Perhaps it flies to Radon Canyon, where it may suddenly develop a third nostril and begin glowing green. Perhaps not.

We, meanwhile, go to the apartment of Cecil Palmer, who has just returned home after concluding this evening’s broadcast.

 -

Carlos holds his hand aloft when Cecil comes in, two fingers pointed upwards: ‘two minutes’, in their shared code. So, Cecil simply continues to the bedroom and shucks his vest and tie onto the bed, popping open the buttons at his collar with a sigh of relief. He snatches up a form from the bedside table, scans the contents, and nods. Pressing his thumb first against an inkpad and next onto the form, he crosses to the window and raises the page up. He says: “Form one-zero-C-dash-twenty-one, fifteen minute override. Surveillance-free time to be subtracted from account Palmer, Cecil, as part of accrued benefits as long-standing employee of Night Vale Community Radio, co-signing applicant Carlos.” Taking the form away and speaking at a lower volume, he adds, “there’s a bag of chips taped to the underside of the balcony two floors below and…” he pauses briefly. “ _Escape Plan_ , PVR recording. Apartment 2-B.”

He waits until a flashlight codes ‘c-o-n-f-i-r-m-e-d’ and ‘t-h-a-n-k-s’ in Morse on the ceiling from outside before heading back to the living room.

“Fifteen minutes.” He says, rolling his sleeves down from the elbows as he goes. “I’d use more, but I haven’t been able to check my balance since the records office at the station was… um… temporally dislocated.”

“S’okay.” Carlos doesn’t look up from what he’s doing, nose inches from the tabletop, but reaches awkwardly behind him and gropes about until he’s able to twine the fingers of one hand with Cecil’s. He uses a toothpick to dab gluten-free soya sauce onto a graph, completing a spidery line from one point to the next. “‘Extracted from the flesh of real soy!’” he quips dryly, and Cecil smiles at the man’s tone of voice.

“I’m guessing your soy beans aren’t sentient?” He leans in to wrap an arm around Carlos, breathing in the scent of his hair.

“They don’t usually have miniature endocrine systems either. Done.” He sets the toothpick into the breast pocket on his lab coat and blows air gently across the graph. Cecil stands up straight and folds his arms while Carlos fans pages out delicately across the table. They look at them in silence.

“Overall coverage of corporate events spiked again.” Carlos notes quietly, pointing at a chart. The simple line graph shows an overall incline amidst a series of jagged points.

“I was reminded – again – to report events, _factually_.” Cecil responds. His brow furrows. “The stories are coming in as per usual, I told them that, but of course they mean I should downplay the severity. Maintain a positive and lighthearted outlook and disposition. I was further reminded that, if I wanted, I had access to counselling in case I’m finding things too _strenuous_.” His voice lifts in mockery. “‘ _A happy worker gives a happy broadcast, Cecil!’_ ”

Carlos shifts in his chair, twists to look up. He carefully studies Cecil’s face.

“You’re worried.” He states quietly. Cecil looks away.

For a moment the only sounds are the soft crunching noises coming from the refrigerator and the crackles and pops of the television. Carlos has been collecting data on the Strexcorp media monopoly for weeks now. The results are graphed in a pie chart and data spreadsheet. They are disturbing.

“Yes. I’d rather not admit it but...” Cecil pulls a chair towards himself with a scrape, sitting with his legs apart, elbows resting on his thighs and fingers laced together. He broods. “I’m… concerned. Night Vale is off. Like it’s gone wrong. People aren’t noticing as much. They’re too preoccupied, too... complacent. Or maybe they’re just forgetting to tell me, to let me in. I can’t tell. I _know_ it has everything to do with Strexcorp, but…”

Carlos removes his glasses and uses the corner of his lab coat to clean them. When he puts them back on the light from overhead flashes across them, and Cecil briefly catches his reflection in the lenses. “There’s been a decline in… hold on.” Carlos flicks his eyes over the pages where they lie. “A decline in reports being made to the station. Or at least, in specific _types_ of reports. Oddities and community events are down the most, local news has stabilized, business and politics are way up – though the second may be due to the upcoming municipal election, lots of stuff about candidates, figurative and literal mudslinging – but editorials are down more than sixty percent from a month ago. These are just the numbers based on broad categories, I don’t have pattern tracking done up for actual content yet. If I had transcripts…” He looks up hopefully, but stalls when he sees Cecil’s face darken.

“My tapes are being held pending a quarterly evaluation by station management. New policy.” A quiet undercurrent of anger laces through Cecil’s voice, and the lights dim for an instance.

Carlos looks alarmed. “When did they..?”

“Today.” Cecil finishes.

Carlos sits back. “That changes things.”

Cecil shrugs, but is visibly uncomfortable. “We’ll have to keep doing raw collection for now.” With a glance at the watch on his wrist, he says, “three minutes left.”

They begin shuffling papers together, loosely stacking them and placing them in a binder titled “ _Recetas de la Abuela_ ”.

Later, as they lie curled around each other in a heap of tangled covers, Cecil shifts. Almost awkwardly, he asks, “I… you haven’t noticed anything changing with how I report, have you? They’ve been trying so hard to get me to alter my style, I’ve been worried that it’s been… affecting me despite my best efforts.”

Carlos opens his eyes one after the other, then blinks slowly, and holds Cecil’s gaze. “You still report the truth, insofar as you’re able. I don’t think your journalistic integrity or professionalism could be questioned, not in the slightest.”

Cecil visibly relaxes, and Carlos smiles faintly – but reaches a hand forward to cup the side of Cecil’s face, thumb rubbing against his temple. “Don’t provoke anyone until we can prove something.” He says low and urgent. “This is still just research, we’re not anywhere close to drawing conclusions, I’m not even sure I’ve got a proper hypothesis in place for any of this. It’s just raw collection, like you said. We could be overlooking something. Maybe… I’m misinterpreting the data. Maybe all this is just… the natural progression of things. Evolution at work. Maybe they really are just…”

Cecil takes Carlos’s hand and kisses the palm dead-center. He is utterly serious, and his voice takes on a bit of the timbre it does when he’s on air. “Do _you_ believe that? After all the work we’ve done together? After all that we’ve _seen_?”

Carlos thinks about being denied access to some parts of town he’d previously passed through unencumbered, having his research findings omitted from publication, the near constant rebranding of everything in sight. He thinks about the increases in rush hour traffic, the rumours of saws used for lumber milling in the Whispering Forest, of dying feral bee colonies, vanished angels and silent pale wide-eyed children flitting about town. Finally he shakes his head.

“Not a bit.”

 -

_Scientists have just confirmed that Abalone Creek is, in fact, completely unfit for any sort of contact with human and other beings. They would like to inform listeners that it is critical to maintain at least five-hundred yards of distance between yourself and the creek; which, as you know, is still filled with viscous black ooze that has a rainbow sheen when the light hits it just at the right angle, and not with the usual saline solution and shell-less snail flesh. This ooze has been proven deadly in thirty-three percent of cases within 24 hours of direct inhalation or ingestion; in twenty-four percent of cases where the ooze was applied to skin; and in four percent of cases where the subject winked cheekily at the ooze, thus provoking it. In an addendum, the scientists say, in all percentage of cases, standing too long in the vicinity of the creek or the miasma shimmering over top of it has been shown to cause rapid and irreversible mutations in most strands of DNA, in addition to causing an unfortunate case of bacne. Again: maintain at least five-hundred yards of distance between yourself and Abalone Creek at all times, particularly when you ought to be in your cubicle, hard at work._

 -

The week passed with variable speeds, as usual.

Cecil ran his shows, and if he seemed distracted somehow – distant, or strained, or stilted – nobody commented.

Carlos occupied himself about town, still busily cataloguing the small differences with his eyes and noting them down in the evenings. Strange branded goods stocking the shelves at Ralph’s. A playpen built of brightly coloured plastic and lacquered metal carved intricately with runes, materialized overnight in Mission Grove Park. Children would come and stare blankly for hours, as though they had no idea what it was for, and someone disappeared in the ball pit (when he drew closer to the structure he swore he could hear a faint melody, like a television jingle, but far off and tinny, and felt a sudden all-encompassing desire for ice-cream and medium-rare steak). He confirmed that tuition fees were rising at the Community College – incrementally, it was true, but everything was suspect these days. Signs reading ‘ _Closing Out’_ and ‘ _Final Sale: Everything Must Go. We Must Go. I Must Go. Everything. Go.’_ appeared in shop windows all through Old Town. Walls being torn down, rebuilt, painted in varying shades of sickly orange and yellow. Increasing reports of organ meats clogging sewer systems. So much of it appearing random, or coincidental. So much of it that he was certain, wasn’t.

He wanted to laugh, sometimes, at the absurdity that, of all the data collections to achieve consistent results, this had to be the one. But then he thought that maybe someone _didn’t care_ if it was discovered, what was happening in Night Vale, and then it wasn’t quite so funny.

-

We the citizens of Night Vale are suspicious, vigilant to the core. We hold together the shreds and tatters of our sanity through sheer willpower and self-regulation. We manage every breath, weigh every word, measure each thought that flies through our minds to ensure they adhere to acceptable parameters before loosing them on the world through speech. There are three tiers of knowledge here: that which we know; that which we know, but deny; that which we do not know, and remain ignorant of as of yet. 

Despite these truths, self-deception is not within our capacities – we are only capable of denying that which we have already heard, or thought, or seen. After all, how can we know what is safe - safest – if we do not comprehend what is dangerous? We see and think; we report; the Voice ensures that the rest of us hear, and understand, and therefore are able to make informed choices about that which we must remain oblivious of. The Voice of Night Vale grants us what truth we are permitted, tied up in contradictions, limned with wry certainty and dry reassurance.

We give no external indication of what we know, but we the citizens of Night Vale do not lie to ourselves.

That does not mean that we fight. You might say our heart’s generally not in it.

There are a few exceptions.

 -

 One day. One dreary day, and everything changed.

 -

_Listeners? I do not know if you can hear me. I am only trusting that I did this right._

_I wired my phone into the soundboard, and then wired the soundboard into the radio tower, which is running on auxiliary power. It’s, um, a cool trick my childhood best friend Earl Harlan taught me back when we were in Boy Scouts together, earning our Subversive Radio Host badge._

_I doubt Daniel, or any of the new station management, can hear me as they do not like listening to radio shows. Also, I’m hiding up on the roof with my makeshift studio._

_During the weather, I got word from some witnesses at the helicopter accident. The Sheriff’s Secret Police found several large slingshots and heavy stones nearby that matched, in size and shape, the dents on the helicopter’s engine casing._

_They also found a well-worn and heavily-notated copy of Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather._

_Inside the book was a bookmark, marking page 267. On that page was the underlined phrase, “I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.”_

_And on the bookmark was a handwritten note. It said, “Your pilot is fine. She is ours now. She will return when she is ready, but she will return better. T.F.”_

_I do not know if that T.F. stands for our missing girl – our brilliant, and bold, and missing girl. If station management _is_  listening, I, of course, hope we find Tamika Flynn and bring her home safely._

_I hope that she will find you first, that is._

_Remember what I said, listeners, about the traffic? About the birds? Think on that. Think on lots of things. Think about heroes, and whether we should even need them._

_The answer is, we do not._

_I sometimes wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. I cannot tell you everything I think you should hear because it is…boring. Or, it is unnecessary. Or it is _very_ necessary, but unapproved._

_There are many reasons I cannot always tell you what I want to tell you, but the main reason is that you need to find it out for yourself. I could preach, and teach, and shout, and explain, but no lesson is as powerful as the lesson learned on one’s own._

_You can do it! You don’t need old Cecil telling you what’s happening in town. No. I just report the news. I just arrange it. _You_  figure it out.  _You_  learn from it.  _You_  take action.  _You_  create the meaning. It is all up to  _you_._

_And, given my current broadcasting situation, it may be up to you for a long time._

_I’d better get downstairs before they discover what I’m doing. Stay tuned next for silence, self-reflection, and a long pause to hear yourself think._

_Use that silence well._

_Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight._

 -

The streets are calm. A column of thick, black, choking smoke rises up against the backdrop of the sunless sky, which is deepening in shade towards the eventual darkness of full evening. Cecil glances over his shoulder now and then as he walks the few blocks to his home, each sense prickling and tuned in at full capacity, but he hears nothing. Feels nothing. Sees, nothing. In the distance throughout the town, there are more helicopters, bright watchful yellow beams of light coursing down and sweeping from side to side. They search in vain, Cecil hopes. Tamika should be safely away at this point, but she will be cut off from the city for the next few days. Only Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, might notice something; but then again, probably not. Black sedans are, after all, very inconspicuous. They are further proven difficult to recall clearly when one sets their mind to the task of remembering exactly what vehicles have been seen that day, which is a _very_ useful characteristic to have at your disposal when aiding and abetting a missing child in acts of sedition.  

He opens the door to his apartment and sees Carlos – his Carlos – with a tire iron held ready in one hand and a backpack in the other.

“You’re learning quickly.” He says through a tight and humourless smile.

Carlos shrugs, but looks pleased, lowering the tire iron to his side. “Only the essentials, right? Just like we talked about. I wish it wasn’t tonight, though.”

“We don’t get to pick when things like this happen, only try to turn them to our advantage. It’s all we ever really get to do, actually.”

 “Please tell me this isn’t going to turn into one of those moments where you go off on a soliloquy and orate extensively about how, given the chaotic and random nature of the universe, _every_ action we take is merely a consequence of flaring synapses and miniature reactions to external stimuli, each beyond our control no matter how strong the illusion of autonomy might seem?”

“Why would I? You’ve already done such a lovely job yourself! Should I be concerned for my career, Carlos, outside of the events of today?”

Carlos mutters something affectionately in Spanish under his breath, surely profane, but steps aside to let Cecil into the main body of the apartment, setting the tire iron near the closet. Cecil walks purposefully to his bedroom, kneeling on the floor next to the bed and reaching into the darkness below. The shadows there curl around his fingers like curious creeping vines or the tentacles of a sea-anemone, and Cecil strokes them absently even as he rummages about.

“Aha. Here.”

He pulls out a backpack of his own, made of thick waterproof canvas and stuffed full. It has a bedroll strapped to the top and a water bottle in the side pocket. He hefts it with one hand, his arm straining, then swings it onto his shoulders. Carlos watches from the doorway and whistles.

“That’s impressive.”

“Well, you know what they say. ‘Be prepared, or face the consequences of your own carelessness and know that none of us feel sympathy for your plight.’”

“I never heard that one when _I_ was in Boy Scouts.”

“I know. We need to go, now. I may have gotten a bit carried away tonight, and I don’t want to risk anything happening to… uh, anything else we should take with us?”

“No. Wait. Yes. Our notes. We can’t let them find those, why didn’t I get them sooner…”  

They rush into the living room together. Carlos glances furtively about while Cecil goes to the bookcase and searches for the file folder containing their research.

“We’ll have to take the Route 800, there’s no other way out of the city right now that’s not cordoned off as part of the search for the children…” Carlos muses quietly, speaking too quickly. He’s nervous, and rakes his fingers back through his hair. “Even Desert Bluffs can’t be that bad, we should be able to lay low there for a while, they can only track us for so far outside city limits…”

Cecil hums in reluctant agreement, but then freezes with his fingers poised between _Culinaria Luftnarp_ and _Recipes for Every Séance_. “…Wait.”

“Hm?”

“Desert Bluffs. I… Something’s wrong. I think we miscalculated.”

“Cecil?”

He turns to Carlos slowly, the urgency gone momentarily from his motions and demeanour. “I… I just remembered something. Something from the sandstorm. No one else was there, but… I _saw_ it. Among the blood and the viscera, the teeth and skin and hair – tacked up on the wall. It was smeared with gore, I didn’t see at first, but it was a poster. A poster with a logo on it, it… Carlos, Strexcorp, they…”

There’s a moment of horrified realization that breaks between them.

“…They _are_ Desert Bluffs.”

The window shatters inwards, and the room is filled with noise and light and terrible wind, and Cecil tries to push Carlos backwards, tries to stand in front of him, but the Police are already swarming into the room, and then there is a bag over his head and a sharp sting at the base of his neck, and nothing-

 -

  _Stay tuned for a re-broadcast of the sounds of slow, steady dripping, with occasional screams._

 -

[Redacted] felt their breath, harsh and damp around the mouth of their balaclava. Outside the moon turned the desert into something like an underwater landscape, wavering light cast through a thin scrim of clouds. It would be cold when they got out of the van.

There existed a great, calm stretch between their thoughts and body; they could hear blood rushing in their ears, and it was like it belonged to someone else.

The air was stifling.

The squad leader sat in the passenger seat, helmet cast down on the floor between her feet, pressing a wad of cotton gauze to her mouth. The blood spotting through looked black in this light, so late at night. No one had expected the scientist to fight back so ferociously – Carlos, his name is Carlos, remember? It had taken three officers to subdue him but first… first he had snatched up a light fixture, swung it into the leader’s face where the helmet and goggles didn’t protect her, the bulb inside sparking as it burst when the lampshade crumpled. Carlos had screamed and thrashed and even tried to bite until the bag went over his head and still he’d been yelling, panicky, after Cecil. Cecil couldn’t answer, already limp and being hoisted out the window with his head lolling against his chest. They neutralized Carlos eventually and offloaded him at the nearest holding centre. [Redacted] was part of the small team that continued on with Cecil.

Code of Conduct Rule 32: Maintain objectivity. 

There was a bump, the van swaying and then steadying, and [Redacted] realized they’d hopped off the highway. They craned their neck, trying to see out the front window. A moan drifted into the air.

“Shut him up.” The squad leader said curtly, and [Redacted] scrambled forward at once. They fumbled a hypodermic from the bandolier across their chest. The cap broke off cleanly, a long thin needle gleaming in the pale greenish lighting thrown off by the illumination strips lining the walls. They felt nausea roll once, low in their intestines.

They got down on their knees, hunching for balance, and felt for Cecil’s neck. The man stirred, sluggish and numb.

“’lease…” Cecil slurred around the cloth between his teeth, and [Redacted] felt a bright hot surge of shame and sickness. They stabbed the needle forward, depressed the plunger, and watch Cecil momentarily seize and then fall still. [Redacted] stayed bent over for a moment, staring – at the zip ties around Cecil’s wrists, the skin now chafed and bloodied. At the bruises blooming dark amongst the tattoos twisting down his forearms. At the man’s nearly-closed eyelids, a thin gleam of white shuttered amongst his eyelashes; at his swelling lips, a dark smear of drying blood at the corner of his mouth from when he’d bitten his tongue during initial transit.

This was so much different from the other times.

Rule 32: Remain objective.

[Redacted] had been… what, thirteen when Cecil took to the airwaves? His voice had floated, disembodied, from the radio kept in the kitchen. At some point [Redacted] had taken to listening to the news with greater regularity until it was part of the evening routine, all the way through training, even now when they and their partner lay side to side in bed just prior to sleep. Even when they worked night missions, like tonight, they kept an ear out to the station with an old pair of headphones and a miniature handheld. 

Remain objective.

Impossible.

Seeing this was like… imagining the clock tower rooted and solid and fixed. Or like looking directly at a hooded figure. It made [Redacted] feel tremble-y, gloopy around the edges. Cecil never got taken in like this. He’d always been _walked_ into the station, and he’d known the officers by name even behind their masks. His eyes had been set like flint, unafraid, bordering on defiant. He always had that look hovering around his lips, like a smirk, even when he was limping his way back out into the world, and re-education never seemed to faze him.

They rocked back on their feet but stayed hunkered. When they looked outside they saw the moon, past its zenith and now sliding back down the sky. They were driving towards it. They were driving west.

The body pits were west.

Ever since the mission came in at the station, [Redacted] had been fighting off a growing sense of unease about the form and purpose it was taking. But now there was no way to deny the basic truth of the matter:

Cecil wasn’t supposed to come back from this.

[Redacted] came back to themselves entirely, felt their Sig Sauer rest against their thigh. They drew it slowly from its holster, feeling its weight like a stone or battering ram, hard and heavy. They thought of the last six years, spend training and drilling and sitting in on interrogations and re-educations, and realized none of it mattered. None of it ever really mattered. Night Vale may not need heroes, but it needed a Voice. Someone to speak for them. To them. Someone. Cecil.

The squad leader, wadding up the cotton cloth soaked in blood from her facial wound, head unprotected, turning in her seat to crane a too-long neck down at Cecil’s prone body. [Redacted] felt the world tunnel away again, but this time focused; utterly clear. The gun in their hand.

“Is he-” the leader began, and [Redacted] jabbed a hand forward, three fingers extended. The leader cawed in agony and twisted back around, thrashing and pawing at all three of her eyes. The driver would react soon, hadn’t yet hit the brakes. [Redacted] had already thrown themselves forward, wedging themselves arms and head first into the gap between the two front seats. They struck once, sharp, to the right with the grip of the gun before they flipped it in their hands, thumbed the hammer, and lowered the gun to the left. The squad leader slumped against the window, her face slack, head now bloodied at one temple as well. [Redacted] didn’t know if she was still breathing and had no time to check. They felt bile in their throat, heart seeming to thrum like razor wire held taut and plucked. The driver was glancing sidelong at the barrel pointed towards his face.

“This is highly irregular.” He said, almost wonderingly.

[Redacted] swallowed, their spine prickling along its entire length. “Do you know where John Peters sits? The farmer?”

“Do you know what happens to a member of the Secret Police who deliberately disobeys orders or sabotages a mission in progress? Who attacks a superior officer?”

“I asked you a _question._ Do you know where John Peters is?”

The driver shrugged, nodded. [Redacted] swallowed again, said: “Right. Take us there.”

The driver smoothly pulled around, carving a very different set of tracks into the desert dust than those which had led towards Radon Canyon and the pits, and the desert wind rose and blew the tracks away until no trace remained.

 -

There is a Man in a Tan Jacket, carrying a deerskin suitcase. He stands, smoking a cigarette, by a black sedan with dark and tinted windows through which a flickering light is visible; perhaps fire. The car is parked by a street corner where a subway platform entrance lurks, barricaded and taped over with leaflets and local advertisements; the subway is still closed for renovations. He looks up at the sky and blows smoke through his nostrils. It rises up and dissipates slowly into the generalized smog that covers Night Vale, and he rumbles low in his throat: a sound that might be irritation, or resignation, or disappointment, or perhaps _concern._ It’s hard to say. He flicks the butt to the sidewalk and grinds it out with the heel of one shoe, before opening the sedan door. There’s much to do now, and plans needs must be thoroughly revised. He had feeling this would happen.

 -

_Greetings, listeners. Tonight’s show has been postponed in lieu of pre-recorded messages from our sponsors. These messages will be initiated pending twelve seconds ago, at the start of this broadcast, and will continue indefinitely; or at least for the next twenty-four hours._

-

[Redacted] left the rear van doors open, the driver unconscious in his seat due to a judicious application of force against the nerve endings at the base of his neck. They strode towards John Peters, you know, the farmer, a large drawstring-mouth burlap sack and restraints held loosely in one hand. The farmer stared blankly forward, just as he had when the dust plume from the van rolling to a stop washed over him. His shotgun was propped between his legs, hands folded over each other on the stock. The chair had only three legs now, but he was balanced perfectly. [Redacted] approached from the blind spot. Just in case.

The shotgun swung up and blasted into the sky when the bag went over his head, but [Redacted] kicked it away before twisting their hands into the tatters of John Peter’s shirt and heaving him onto the ground. They muttered “sorry” under their breath when they straddled him, tugging the farmer’s arms behind his back and pinning his legs before clapping restraints in place around his wrists, his knees, his ankles. The farmer thrashed like a fish might if fish were real until [Redacted] knocked him out. That was the fourth or fifth person tonight they’d knocked unconscious, all within the span of roughly two and a half hours. Was that a precinct record?

They then went to the door, chains and locks gleaming under the now clear night sky, and began heaving the loops and tangles of metal up and off to the side. They slithered and clattered onto the ground, where they continued to clink and writhe against each other lazily.

[Redacted] returned to the van. First they snipped the zip ties and wrapped Cecil’s wrists clumsily in gauze bandages, picking the man up and carrying him gently to the door. They left him, propped up against the wooden slab that somehow seemed more present now, bringing back a drawstring bag filled with a bottle of water, rationed wheat-and-wheat-by-product-free protein bars, and more gauze bandages. They’d tried to find painkillers but couldn’t read the pill bottle labels clearly enough to reassure themselves they wouldn’t be poisoning him and gave up. They also gave up trying to find the van’s copy of Survival Tactics, because they weren’t even sure they’d survive opening the Oaken Door, and felt like they were running out of time.

They looped the drawstring over Cecil’s shoulders, which took longer than expected. At the end, arm muscles burning from various exertions, they were barely able to breathe through the acrylic wool and leather of their balaclava. So they took it off, lifting their face into the cool night air.

It seemed like the stars and the moon and the other unknowable celestial bodies of the sky touched their face, cool fingers smoothing over their brow and trailing down one cheek in a gesture of comfort. Of course this was illusory: the void did not care. The universe possessed no sentience, and if it did it was almost certainly hostile. Yet [Redacted] couldn’t shake the feeling, somehow, that this _signified_. They breathed in and out, and hoped their partner would forgive them someday.

The knob of the door felt warm to the touch when they took it in hand, and turned smoothly as though oiled, the latch retracting with a satisfying ‘snick’. [Redacted] pushed forward slowly, terror beat-beat-beating a monotone in their brain like an exclamation point, the hinges working with no sound at all, and the door opened on…

An infinity of doors, all opening in unison, the interior space shadowed and mercurial – flickering – for an instant before it rippled, shivered, and melted like quicksilver and reformed as a landscape [Redacted] had seen once before. A vast floodplain, riddled with dark pools, a mountain far off and hazy in the distance. A red light beat like a heart at the summit.

It was not Night Vale, and so [Redacted] hoped Cecil might be safe there.

[Redacted] picked Cecil up under his arms, and dragged him as gently as possible towards the doorway. The space beyond took Cecil up like water, actually lifting his body out of [Redacted]’s grasp, and they staggered back in alarm and awe. Cecil was suspended upright, beatific somehow, seeming to float _on_ the opening beyond the door… and then sank through, the image spilling around him and over him, and he vanished from sight.

The surface rippled once more, the infinite span of doorways reappearing, and the door swung shut, slowly, the image of a rose blooming in the wood-grain on the front before the latch clicked and the door was once more only a door.

[Redacted] felt apprehension and relief filling up the marrow in their bones well before they felt the cold circle of a gun muzzle against their head.

The squad leader stood there beside them, eyes bulging and inflamed, teeth bared, her face a mask of coagulating blood. “Consequences for us all,” she gritted through her teeth. “Officer, I condemn you.”

[Redacted] only felt that odd sense of rightness and fulfillment unique to a job well done, and a laugh bubbled to life in their chest. They turned their eyes up once more and the moon’s curve was reflected there.

The shot, when it came, was almost inconsequential.

As was procedural, the name of [Redacted] was stricken from all public record, and they were never spoken of again.

Cecil Palmer was reported missing.

-

Tamika Flynn stands at the edge of a cliff, atop a mesa overlooking Night Vale far away and far below. Her eyes are dark, yet almost seem to glow in her face, her nose slightly wrinkled as though the early morning breezes are the courier for a peculiar stench. Her arms are folded across her chest, the Librarian’s hand around her neck now wizened and dry, almost mummified. Her shirt and capris are beaten and worn thin. A slingshot dangles from her back pocket. Behind her the encampment stirs, beginning to liven with the coming of the day. Children begin to emerge from their tents, blinking the sleep away from their eyes, knives and miscellaneous weaponry held in hand or loose in sheaths and sashes – they slept with it, as always, ready for any eventuality. Small Bunsen burners and ritualistic fires are lit, emanating heat but no smoke – they cannot risk being seen, not even from this distance. Cans of soup and beans, their tops pried off roughly, are set to cook.

Night Vale twinkles, glitters, the streetlamps not yet extinguished; but she knows the gold of the lights is false, and for fools. The helicopters circling the city are tiny specks, like malevolent bees circling a poisoned nest. A part of her, the part that is still thirteen years old and thinks it should be afraid, wants to feel pity for the citizens who are still trapped there. Another part is scornful. The rest of her is calculating, envisioning the streets as library stacks, the houses and buildings merely volumes and tomes and worn, battered paperbacks, their enemies as shrewd and merciless as any librarian. She is not without her allies, but she knows it is not yet time to strike. The preparations are not complete. Night Vale still sleeps. The people have not roused themselves. Oh yes, the stirrings are there… the suggestions, the seeds… but although the city protects her, it is not united in defense of _itself_.

One of the Blood Pact Girl Scouts who recently joined them approaches from behind and stands next to her. She gently takes Tamika’s hand in her own and squeezes it reassuringly; Tamika smiles, quick, in reply, but says nothing. Together they watch the sun rise.

Soon.

Not yet.

But soon.

Their war begins in earnest.

 -

  _Well, hi there listeners! It’s another gorgeous evening in our beautiful town of Night Vale. It’s wonderful to talk to you for… well, the first time really! It’s so strange to think of it that way! We here at the station want to apologize for any inconvenience caused during yesterday’s revised broadcast. I understand you may not know me, so allow me a brief introduction before we hop right into this evening’s show. My name is Kevin, and I’ll be replacing the previous host, Cecil, who – it falls to me to say, I’m afraid – has been terminated as part of Strexcorp’s radical new Radio Revitalization project! Never fear, never fear, I can assure you that you’ll scarcely know the difference – no dramatic changes are forthcoming to the program, after all! Think of it as… a facelift. Or a voicelift, hahaha! And rest assured – Cecil received his due severance package, and all of us here at the station wish him well! He will be dearly missed. But let’s not linger on the past; the past is, after all, only a fleeting memory, and the future beckons us, bright and new and full of promise! So listeners, let us go to the news…_

 -

End of Chapter One.

 

 


	2. Part Two, Chapter 1: I Prefer to Think of it as "Testing Variables"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil had briefed Carlos on re-education, by explaining to him exactly what it was not like, what it could never be like, and how it was in no way possible to describe the associated agonies. So Carlos thought he could be prepared. If he had to. But this was nothing like that. He thinks. Is he sure?
> 
> No matter how well you plan, you never know how you’ll react until you’re in the situation.
> 
> Carlos has no gauge for his reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um.... Consider this your official tag warning: "Bad things happen to Carlos". Also, psychological torture.  
> Also, spoilers for Season 3 of Game of Thrones.

Part 2: Parallel Structures

Or

“All of us, trying to get home”

 

-

 

Chapter One: I Prefer to Think of it as "Testing Variables"

 

He wakes, for the first time, in an utterly dark cell.

For a few moments he’s motionless; then, when the panic response kicks in, he’s wholly unable to do anything but scramble about, helplessly cramped and incapable of standing. There’s a slow realization that he’s in the confines of a cube, a box, a six-sided shape with size faces and equilateral measurements. The blackness seems to pry at the sides of his eyes, loosening them in their sockets and prickling around the edges. He is sore. His glasses are gone. He can’t seem to breathe properly.

The human hand, all fingers extended and spread wide, is the same length as that same individual’s forearm from wrist to elbow, provided the arm is bent at a 90 degree angle. Both lengths are the same measure as the individual’s foot from toe to heel. Carlos’s feet are ten and one-quarter inches long. From these measurements, he is able to initially determine, check, and re-verify that the cell measures roughly five and a half feet cubically, not enough for him to stretch out in any direction. He resigns himself temporarily to his hands and knees in the posture of a penitent, and hears his breath ragged in his ears like softly tearing cloth. Small abrasions and contusions begin to announce themselves all over his body the more his awareness grows. It takes a while to turn over awkwardly and sit against a wall, but he manages.

There’s a span where he takes time to orient himself – up, down, sides. In all his time in Night Vale he’s never verified that gravity is a constant, and so is all too aware that it may not be. How long has he been awake? He can hear sounds beyond the confines of the cell now. Perhaps they know he’s awake. Maybe they can track his brainwaves. He wouldn’t put it past them. They’re probably watching him right now. It disturbs him more in this context than when he was in Night Vale proper, probably because he was able to maintain the semblance of normalcy on multiple occasions. Now, not so much. Each blink tries to peel away the blackness surrounding him and each one fails resoundingly. He’s alone with himself, and he’s never been good company even in non-strenuous social situations. His mind is starting to feel like a laboratory rat running on a wheel going nowhere, around and around and around and-

Stop that. He can feel panic starting to flutter all through his body and if he doesn’t keep himself occupied mentally he might scream or sob or laugh. If he starts, he doesn’t know when or if he’ll be able to stop.

It appears that they’ve got him in the same clothes he came in with – his t-shirt feels filthy with slow-drying perspiration and possibly blood. One foot is notably shoeless. When did he lose it? One of his heels is exposed to the air because of a hole in his sock. When he presses it against the floor, whatever material it is, it feels pliable and yet strikingly cold.

He thinks about praying but is reasonably certain nothing will hear him. Night Vale is remarkably atheistic for all their talk of ancient gods and unholy deities, and some of that seems to be rubbing off on him. His _Abuela_ would have words for him about that. She had soft wrinkled brown skin and shaky hands and hair that was always pulled back, and her eyes twinkled with inner youth and she was _strong_ … did all her own gardening and the cooking besides. Maybe she would have liked Cecil, if there’d been a chance to introduce them. Stop thinking about him in the past tense. Stop thinking like it’s the end. Stop thinking.

 -

 They pull him out sideways from an unexpected door in one of the walls – he’s disoriented enough that he’s taken entirely unprepared when the square of light first slides into being - blindfold him, and frogmarch him into a blank white tiled room that seems so much brighter than it must be in actuality. He’s held upright and stretched out and stripped down. They hose him down with a spray of lukewarm water. It probably wasn’t filtered well enough from groundwater; it smells faintly of sulphur and ammonia.

They scrub him down until his skin stings and try to sit him down in a chair made of ancient wood that looks suspiciously like an electric chair minus certain lethal components. He struggles. The back of his knees are struck with a rubber baton and he goes down like loose bones. Straps are fitted, cinched, and buckled firmly around his wrists, upper arms and torso, across his thighs, at each ankle; someone standing behind him places their hands on either side of his head, carefully, but strong. He hears an electric clipper start up.

They shave his sideburns and jaw first. Before they start in on his head, they use scissors to hack off most of the volume of his hair, the springy thick curls, and then the buzzer to razor off the rest.

Clippings get in his eyes and up his nose and they stick in the tears tracking lines on his face because eventually he starts to cry. A hoarse voice keeps saying “no” over and over again and Carlos realizes it’s his mouth moving to say it. When they brush his face off, he spits in the face of the officer in front of him and earns a crack across his jaw.

More shouts, the officer who hit him getting hustled away, something about “no marks, you idiot, remember the new protocol-” He sees shame in the body language of the people surrounding him before the blindfold goes back on. Tonguing the newly tender place inside his mouth he smiles, savagely proud. His head feels very cold.

He’s still strapped to the chair when there’s a sharp prick along his left forearm, a sense of icewater climbing _through him_ , _inside him_ from what’s got to be a needle… and… fizzing… digital static – the world winks out into ions. The dark in his head is full of breaking glass. The apocalypse wind, the syncopated thudding, of chopper blades.

-

He wakes.

It’s soft. Warm. Comfortable. Feels roughly 500-thread count.

The tactility of it all has him shifting and stretching lazily, turning from his back to his side and rumbling low in his chest with pleasure – it’s been a _great_ sleep. The left side of his face strikes the pillow. From his jaw there’s an immediate sizzle of pain that skitters up into his temple, spikes deep into his head. That’s about when he realizes that he’s not in the apartment, and this isn’t _his_ King-sized bed.

He twists in alarm and entangles himself in the bedding, rolling too far to one side and landing with a thump and caw of pain on the floor. He manages to claw and scrape his way out of the snarled blankets. It takes longer to scrabble his hands around the bedside table until he finds his glasses – he knocks a sizable stack of papers off onto the floor in a cascade- but once he does it brings into focus a room of moderate size. The lighting is restrained, neither overly dim nor uncomfortably bright. If he were outside, he’d be able to see for miles; in here, he notes through the rapidly descending fugue of alarm, that his eyes aren’t remotely strained. Even the shadows seem calibrated.

The walls are a non-descript shade of light cream-ish-tan, the paint colour something that’d probably be named ‘café latte’ or ‘corn plant bark’ or ‘existentialism’ down at the local Home Depot. Directly opposite the bed is a large screen television sunken into an alcove; the remote is settled on a wooden dresser with dark varnish just below. It rests next to a television guide with most of the pages ripped out. Perpendicular to the bed is a door, currently closed. The lamp on the bedside stand is a soft, modern globe-shape; it has also been secured with four industrial bolts at the base so it can’t be picked up or moved. It has no visible light switch. An armchair is tucked into the corner, adjacent to another door which is made of heavy, smooth metal, inexpertly painted, and which has a metal rectangle built in about two-thirds of the way up from the floor. He’s seen enough prison movies to recognize this slot for what it is: a secure sliding tray, likely for transferring food and other items in and out of the room. As for the rest, Carlos is reminded of a hotel room… albeit windowless.

He rises to his feet, more than a little unsteady. His hands shake at his sides. Okay. Okay. First order of business: take inventory. He is only as good as his assets right now. Whatever they are. One of the dresser drawers opens on black socks and white boxer-briefs; the second, on a few pairs of blue jeans; the third, on soft, faded cotton t-shirts. All are exactly the same colour and weight of fabric. The lowermost drawer rattles slightly as he slams it shut.

The first door proves to open on an en-suite bathroom. There’s a shower, a toilet, a sink and mirrored medicine cabinet. Inside the cabinet is a toothbrush, full tube of toothpaste, bar of soap, and miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner labelled “Cliffrose – with compliments”. They are also full. They’ll remain so. They’d wreck his hair if he had any left to worry about. Unless he files the toothbrush handle into a point, there’s nothing he could reasonably use for a weapon.

The door by the armchair is, predictably, locked.

The television guide flops when he picks it up, empty except for the page that covers HBO. He scans down the grid and finds that it’s a Game of Thrones Season Three Marathon for… whatever day this is. The date has been torn off the page header as well. If he chooses to watch the show it’s quite likely he’ll have a determinate for what hour this is, but he doesn’t see how the guidebook is going to help him tomorrow. Maybe they’ll give him a new one. Why the fuck would he care.

He paces for a while, then sits down at the end of the bed, the mattress dense but pliant. There’s a needle mark on the inside of his right forearm, dominant hand, but it isn’t swelling and doesn’t hurt when he presses on it. Some of Carlos’s other bruises have deepened to a deep plum-ish tone, but that means they’re healing. His leg jigs nervously up and down, foot tap-tap-tapping the floor. Maybe he could tear the sheets up, make a rope from the duvet cover… to what purpose, though? The artwork in the room is discretely painted onto the walls, and he can’t find any seam around the television that would let him pry it down without crushing his fingers.

He realizes he’s utterly helpless.

He scrubs his hands back over his face and unfamiliar scalp, the stubble of his hair rasping finely. His head prickles; he’s not used to feeling this much _air._ He presses his fingertips into his closed eyes until they begin to smart. His ribs are a poorly constructed cage for his heart. It seems to tick within his chest with an even but rapid beat.

Eventually he turns on the television. There’s not much else to do right now.

Onscreen, Theon Greyjoy shrieks for Ramsay Bolton to take it off, take it off, just take off his finger instead of flaying-

He turns the TV off. Sobs once into his hand.

 -

The ticking’s not his heart.

It’s more audible when he presses his ear to the wall that mounts the TV, or to the metal slot in the door. A quiet “snick-snick-snick” sound he can’t place at first… until he remembers jazz band, seventh grade. Dr. Beat, the metronome. There’s a fucking metronome somewhere. Not in his room, maybe the next one over. Or the next. It’s a faint underscore to the other sounds in the room as opposed to an open declaration of being, but now that he’s noticed it… he can’t _un-_ notice it. It’s not counting perfect time. Of course it wouldn’t. It’s slightly faster than a clock would be running.

 -

 He’s watching Rob Stark dip a dunk of bread into a bowl of sea salt, taking the guest right onscreen, when the food tray comes through the door. It makes a chunky, metallic clang. Instantaneously he wrenches himself up and staggers towards the door.

In the tray there’s a paper plate with a large, dripping slice of Big Rico’s pizza. He’d know it anywhere from just the smell. A cheery voice just outside his cell says, “Here ya go – this’s all you’re supposed to get, technically… but there’s a piece of invisible pie too, if you can find it! Haha…”

His tongue feels bloated, sullen in his mouth and he struggles to come up with something to say. “The weekly eating mandate still applies while I’m incarcerated? Come on, you think I’m not being punished enough?” 

But his poor attempt at humour falls flat and he knows that it’s useless to ask why he’s in here. The guard says nothing, simply waits for Carlos to take the plate before sliding the tray back. The slot-guard screeches back into place.

Carlos lifts the pizza with a grimace. The crust is dense and saturated through in patches with oil. Cheese, piled listlessly, fails to cover the surface evenly; it’s more a rubber fungus on a cardboard substrate than anything remotely edible, and the mushrooms look disturbingly like _tricholoma pardinum._ But his stomach is tight and cramped with hunger. Mystery sliced meat or no, he doubts an alternative is going to present itself soon.

The first few bites are acidic, salty, and artificial. But he keeps all of it down, and rinses his mouth out afterwards with water in the bathroom. He doesn’t find the pie.

 -

Carlos lies on his back on the bed, tossing a pair of balled up socks high into the air and catching it with the opposite hand on its descent. Each time it reaches the apex he half expects it to begin levitating, or bleeding, or something. He’d view that as entertainment, a little something to exercise his mind.

He realizes he’s throwing the socks in time with Dr. Beat, that barely audible ‘thock thock thock’, and misses the catch.

“ _Shit_ ,” He says, and leans off the side to retrieve it. In the process, his elbow presses down on the remote control – he forgot it was lying next to him. The television switches on.

“ _PLEASE, CUT IT OFF, CUT IT OFF, AAGHHHHH-”_

Carlos yelps, and falls the rest of the way off the bed. Ramsay Bolton walks up to Theon Greyjoy and smiles giddily, rapaciously. “ _I win!”_

Carlos punches the remote’s power button frantically, too many times. The TV switches off with a faint whine, the screen shrinking to a singular point before going black.

 -

The food tray comes through the door a few hours later. 

Carlos doesn’t approach. He stands by the bathroom, heart throbbing in his ears. Muffled by distance and the thick cell door, he hears, “Here ya go – this’s all you’re supposed to get, technically… but there’s a piece of invisible pie too, if you can find it! Haha…”

Silence. He toes each step carefully, like he’s walking through a field of landmines.

The plate is flimsy in his palms, and the tray slides back. Mushrooms, slices of cured sausage, uninspiring cheese and thin, greasy tomato sauce. He nearly drops it; his hands are trembling so much.

He takes one of the miniature bottles of hair product in the bathroom. Unscrews the lid. Uses the hard plastic rim of the cap to make a thin scratch in the paint just underneath the mirrored medicine cabinet. If there’s anywhere they aren’t monitoring, it’d be in here; decency laws, and all that.

He showers for a long time, head pressed to the tiled wall. Water sluices off his shorn head and gurgles around his feet. Suds from the shampoo he poured out are circling the drain and circling the drain and circling the drain...

 -

He wakes.

Carlos goes to the bathroom and scrubs his face vigorously, feeling stubble already prickling up on his jawline. He still has a tender spot where the guard struck him after the shave, but the soreness helps wake him up more so he prods at it, more than a little masochistically. He gargles methodically after brushing his teeth, swills water around the inside of his mouth – and sees convenience-size shampoo and conditioner bottles nestled next to an unused bar of soap. “Cliffrose – With compliments”. They’re completely full.

He storms out into the adjoining space just in time for the television to flick on with a great shout of sound.

“ _You forgot to ask if I’m a liar!”_

A slim blade inserted at the tip of Theon’s finger and he screams, and Ramsay pulls out the bone from the slit with a sickening squelch, “ _I’m afraid I am. Everything I told you was a lie.”_

Carlos whirls with a hand clapped against his mouth and stumbles back, turning and falling to his knees just in time to retch into the toilet instead of on the floor.

 _“This isn’t happening to you for a reason, well, one reason.”_ He hears, echoing and far away through the rushing sound in his ears and the heaving of his gullet. “ _I enjoy it._ ”

“ _PLEASE, CUT IT OFF, CUT IT OFF, AAGHHHHH-”_

_“… I win!”_

The television switches off, and Carlos pants, bile and spit hanging from his open mouth, his arms clinging to the porcelain sides with elbows jutting and rigid. _I didn’t do that. That wasn’t me. I didn’t…_ Faintly, so faintly, he can hear a rhythmic ‘thock-thock-thock’ that’s slightly faster than a clock’s steady beat.

When he collects himself he goes out and punches the on switch of the remote with his thumb, perching at the end of the bed and staring intently at the television. His mouth moves silently with the parts of each episode that he remembers. When it’s not as immediately recognizable he absorbs what he can and files the scripting, the directing, the characters away.

“ _Be welcome within my halls, and, at my table.”_ Walder Frey speaks the customary dictate with cavalier inflection, and Carlos hears the slot at the door open. He’s been watching for roughly five episodes and a bit, almost six hours when commercial airtime is factored out (there are no commercials; the breaks are filled with blank static). He’ll grant himself a small margin of error on that calculation, for the times when he rewound the PVR to catch a particularly memorable turn of phrase. He doesn’t move nor redirect his stare from the screen, but mouths along with the guard at the door:

“Here ya go – this’s all you’re supposed to get, technically… but there’s a piece of invisible pie too, if you can find it! Haha…”

“C’mon.” Carlos mutters. “C’mon, asshole _,_ c’mon…”

Silence. Carlos has counted to one-hundred-and-twenty-one when he hears the tray slot squeal back into place, and stands abruptly. He crosses to the door – nothing. No leavings, nothing at all. The tray is gone, the slot-guard in place.

 _Miss a retrieval, miss a meal, eh?_ He thinks, and crosses back to the bed. He lies on his stomach on the sheets and watches through the rest of the episode, and he barely even flinches when Catelyn Tully’s throat is slit across in a guttering crimson line.

He uses the shampoo bottle lid to scratch a second thin line just underneath the medicine cabinet mirror, squeezes both shampoo and conditioner into the toilet bowl, and then whittles the bar of soap into slivers with the bottle lid and flushes them away for good measure.

 -

They’d had a plan. Of course they had.

Get out of town at the first signal of trouble. Go to the safe point and wait to be picked up.

If captured, resist. Try to escape.

If interrogated, demand to speak with the Secret Police Officer assigned to his apartment block. The relationship tended to be more personal, and was therefore tied to higher survival rates.

If subject to vigilante justice… well.

Cecil had briefed Carlos  on re-education, by explaining to him exactly what it was not like, what it could _never_ be like, and how it was in _no way_ possible to describe the associated agonies. So Carlos thought he could be prepared. If he had to. But _this_ was nothing like _that._ He thinks. Is he sure?

No matter how well you plan, you never know how you’ll react until you’re in the situation.

Carlos has no gauge for his reaction.

 -

He wakes, dazed.

The lighting hasn’t changed. The television is off. The TV remote is by his elbow, where he remembers it. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, as he remembers it. Dr. Beat is still ticking its way to a merry apocalypse, he counts seventy BPM. All variables seem to be present, stable, and accounted for, except…

He has no way to account for however much time has elapsed. If any. Has he been asleep?

Carlos slowly eases his way up, spine curling slow and creaky, vertebrae by vertebrae, and when he’s folded his legs underneath him he scuffs a hand over his scalp. He freezes. Touches his smooth cheeks and jawline. Practically flies to the bathroom, slipping on the tiled floor and almost crashing headlong into the shower door.

He looks at himself in the mirror and moans.

No stubble anywhere, except on top of his head where he’s recently – no – yes – recently been shaved. He probes his jaw with his fingers and is relieved to find that the dull aching spot has faded even more. The bruises on his arms have taken on a sickly yellowish hue at the fringes, so that’s another good sign… but then he opens the medicine cabinet door. Sees immaculate full bottles of Cliffrose – with compliments - and a bar of soap neatly wrapped in slightly waxy paper, alongside a toothbrush and nearly full tube of toothpaste. But all of them are an inch to the left of where he put them. He’s sure of it. Isn’t he? Dipping down, it has to be there, just like he knows it must, two tallies for two iterations so far that he… oh no. No. Only one scratch is visible under the medicine cabinet. Carlos traces it, momentarily forgetting to breathe, his mouth agape.

As though on cue, Theon’s agonized screaming filters in from the other room.

Carlos plugs both his ears and counts backwards from fifteen.

“This is happening to you for a reason, one reason, they enjoy it, they enjoy it, they…”

“ _I win!”_

“Like hell you do, like _hell_!”

 -

“Here ya go – this’s all you’re supposed to get...”

“Where’s Cecil.”

“…Technically… but there’s a…”

“Where’s _Cecil_.”

“…Piece of invisible pie too, if you can find it! Haha…”

“Where the fuck is Cecil?!”

Silence.

Carlos hurls himself against the door. “ _Go to hell!_ Asshole! You’re telling me you don’t wanna talk, eh, let’s talk _!_ Let’s _talk_! C’mon, doesn’t it get boring saying the same thing every six hours? Does it feel good to betray your hometown? Huh?!”

Nothing. Nothing.

“Fine! _Fuck_ you!” He grabs up the slice of pizza and flings it across the room. It lands with a splat against the far wall and slowly oozes a trail of greasy red tomato sauce down the non-descript creamy-tan paintjob. He hears a loud squalling of metal behind him and whirls just in time to see the tray slot disappear. He thumps the door with a closed fist one more time, and it _smarts_. Several long moments go by with his hands pressed against his mouth and nose like he’s praying, his shoulders an unbroken line of tension beneath the set of his neck.

He picks the worst of the carpet fuzz off of Big Rico’s Fungal Fiasco and eats it, he’s so hungry. He’s got teeth like a military cemetery and the food tastes like death.

 -

 The days are blurring into a monochromatic haze of light cream-ish tan, the tang and aftertaste of tomato sauce and plastic cheese, he’s handling it as best he can, Dr. Beat ticking away his hours too quickly but not quickly enough.

He paces his room and struggles to do push-ups, sit-ups, anything, anything at all, the same damn shows day in and day out, stumbling to the bed sometimes to collapse and stare with hot dry eyes up at the ceiling, stumbling to the bathroom other times to clutch at the sink and reassure himself that he’s still here and the bruises are fading, time is still linear, it’s maybe just folding in on itself a little, a malformed protein. He always wakes up with more toiletries, but the configurations in the medicine cabinet are slightly different every single time: a centimetre’s adjustment here, a swap of the shampoo bottle’s position for the conditioner’s there. He takes an awful lot of showers.

He is forgotten. He is abandoned. It is day. It is night. It is neither. He is in love with Cecil, who is probably dead. He is in love with Cecil, who he hopes is alive. The armchair is at a forty-five degree angle with the wall. It is at a sixty degree angle with the wall. It is shoved into the corner. He’s done none of this himself. He pleads with the Faceless Old Woman but this isn’t his home, it can’t be her, she would at least leave a note, right?

For the first time since he arrived in Night Vale, he’s starting to doubt his own existence. It tastes like iron nails at the back of his throat.

 -

He wakes.

He can’t remember having fallen asleep. The light is modulated and pleasant. There is a television on one wall, a closed door on the other that leads to a bathroom, a third that leads to a hallway. If he goes into the bathroom he’ll find a wrapped bar of soap, toothpaste, full complimentary bottles of Cliffrose Shampoo and Conditioner. If he looks in the dresser he’ll find faded jeans and t-shirts and socks folded neatly into bundles. If he. If he…

The sheets are soft. The bedding is warm from his body heat. His vision is blurry because his glasses aren’t on his face, they’re on the bedside table. His jaw barely hurts but his head is cool because he’s been shaven. Dr. Beat measures out a methodical fifty beats per minute. Bradycardia. 

All at once there’s a burning peppery feel in his sinuses, prickling behind his eyes, and tears well up unbidden. If he turns on the television, it will be to watch a bloody finger-bone being slowly torn from the encasing flesh and tendon; it will be to the sounds of screams. If he doesn’t turn the television on, it will do so itself. The ceiling blends and blurs into soft smudges and prismatic glints and the tears are pooling at the corners of his eyes and in the tender places just above his cheekbones, and he turns over, trying to make himself very, very small. He can’t do this. His chest is hollow with dread and anticipation, and the pillow eats up his sobs.

He stays that way for what could be moments or hours, he’s not sure which and never will be.

“No more.” He whispers. “No more.”

 -

Carlos walks tight circles on the carpeted floor. Each step is counted by Dr. Beat, thock-step thock-step thock-step; he alternates his steps with each tick of the metronome, envisioning the arm of the device swinging in a counterpoint arc to his legs. He’s been awake for two cycles of six hours and has just begun the third. He’s taken meals without question or reaction; has watched television with a stony face and unmoved countenance; has established a baseline routine for self-maintenance and care: rinse his mouth, brush his teeth after eating, shower. He drinks water when he’s thirsty, pushing his mouth up close to the tap. He excretes urine and shits when necessary. There doesn’t seem to be a trigger for _The Climb_ to start playing, but when it does it’s always at the moment he expects. They’ve been getting to him, but now he knows the variables. They’ve been manipulating him, but _now he knows the variables_ , and he wants to try and push the experiment, see how long he can stay awake. Try to rule out chemical inhibitors, because he’s about eighty-seven percent sure he’s not actually caught in a temporal Mobius strip. By process of elimination, and by virtue of the fact that things keep _shifting_. All his tests have failed so far.

The scratch beneath the mirrored medicine cabinet stubbornly refuses to duplicate no matter how many times he etches it into place, and when he wakes up the toiletries are always imperfectly in place and perfectly topped off, and how many cycles has he been through at this point? He’s been tempted to shatter the television a few times by this point but keeps avoiding it, too worried about broken glass and even more terrified that they’d let him bleed out on the floor rather than patch him up and let the experiment to continue. There has to be something he can do, though. 

Metal squalls loudly, and he breaks from the line he’s circumscribing around a non-descript patch of carpeting to step-thock-step-thock towards the door. Food-tray. Of course. He snatches up the pizza before the man on the other side can finish saying “technically”.

Astonishingly, the voice trails off. Carlos breathes in ellipses. Finally, he bends towards the tray.

“No pie today or what?”

Nothing from the other side except a vague clicking, repeated. Then, even more incredible: the tray shoots back into the door with a clang. He follows, pressing his ear flush up to the door.

Carlos hears more clicks, like deep-sea navigational sonar going off.

That’s when the tray slides back into the room, connecting solidly with Carlos’s gut.

He staggers back, his hands clutching his abdomen, and the pizza lands on the floor. He steps on it and it squelches. A quick burst of air escapes his mouth and he can’t suck any back in; his chest cavity feels leaden; there’s a vacuum where his lungs should be. _Winded_ , he thinks, bewildered, and clutches at the tray and the wall to steady himself. He’s bent double, gaping – another cough escapes him and it _hurts_ and he still can’t _breathe –_ and that’s when he sees the envelope sitting where the paper plate would normally. There is, incredibly, a crayon perched atop the finely textured paper.

He grabs both objects and flings them to the floor, a wheeze escaping his lips, and then allows himself to slump back against the wall. The wall thoughtfully carries him to the floor so he can sit and die for a while. The tray slides back and he barely registers the sound.

He coughs wildly in the first few moments just after oxygen makes itself a useful molecular substance in his life again. When he’s able to think in more than spurts of exclamatory and colourful adjectives and nouns, he takes his attention firmly and points it at the envelope.

There’s a single sheet of paper inside, but it’s high-grade stock – the kind of paper that demands to be referred to as ‘creamy’. Unfortunately, as a strike against its aesthetic properties, it’s also a lurid shade of goldenrod yellow. A familiar logo is embossed in the upper right hand corner. Ink doesn’t so much _sit_ on the page as _luxuriate_ there in attractive… what, sans-serif type?

He’s pretty far gone if he’s wasting this much time dissecting the fucking typeface instead of just seeing what the letter’s about. This is the first change in artifacts that he’s seen since his arrival, though. A bit of fixation might be excusable. Probably. 

It reads:

 

_To our valued client:_

_We of STREXCORP SYNERNISTS, INC. value your invaluable input in our current market research trial! It means a lot to us that you, you, you are part of this valuable and lucrative programme, and we thank you for the value you add to our company. It’d mean a lot if you could fill out this brief CUSTOMER SATISFACTION SURVEY so that we can fine-tune aspects that aren’t contributing to a high-value experience!_

_Please rate, on a scale of ORGANIC ARTICHOKE to INTRA-ALVEOLAR FLUID, how SATISFIED or UNSATISFIED YOU_ ARE _with the following:_

Carlos doesn’t read anymore. He finds the crayon where it rolled up against the juncture of wall and flooring and uses it to sketch an anatomically precise human hand with only the middle finger extended across the entirety of the page. He makes sure the the finger points directly at the words "STREXCORP SYNERNISTS" in the upper left hand corner.

Then, he uses the page to loudly blow his nose.

Childish? Yes. Satisfying? Un _utterably._

He folds the now-rumpled – and slightly damp – survey neatly and places it just below his pillow.

The next time the guard brings him his pizza, he cheerfully swipes it up and relishes every over-salted bite. He even finds it in him to hum along with the opening strains of _Game of Thrones._ Rinse. Wash. Repeat.

Carlos manages to stay awake for twenty-nine hours solid by count of the episodes; impressive, given his condition. But, he’s also not as young as he used to be.

-

He wakes.

Cold shackles, cold plastic, cold. He’s in a crinkling paper hospital shift. The room is blindingly white and there’s an observation light above him, the kind you’d see in a dentist’s office. It’s switched off right now, and there’s a small _musca domestica –_ common housefly -skittering over the surface. He turns his head away.

There is a man, just at Carlos’s side, facing away. He smells faintly of gunpowder and rust, oxidation and a whiff of ozone. It’s a volatile combination. He’s wearing a blue plasticized lab coat, and his hands are busy and concealed in front of him at a small table. His hair is dark - brown falling just shy of black - and glossy, and held tight against his skull, secured in a short curling ponytail at the nape of his neck. Carlos is suddenly, horribly certain that when the man turns around, he will wear the same face as him, regardless of hair.

The man turns. Carlos shuts his eyes.

“Ah, you’re awake!” He hears, in a pleasant voice. It bears just the hint of an accent, but Carlos can’t place it.

“Come on,” The voice continues. “What’s that reaction? We don’t have much time together, the two of us, so the sooner we can initiate our conversation the sooner you’ll be returned to your accommodations.”

Carlos’s mouth is so dry. It feels like it takes effort to peel his tongue off the roof of his mouth and when he speaks his voice croaks. “What, and all that pizza? Please, I’m starting to worry I’ll give myself a coronary.”

“A little indulgence _now_ and _then_ doesn’t hurt.” The voice says, and subtext is everything, and it’s fucking with him. ‘ _It’s not like you’re getting it every day’, is that what you mean to tell me?_ Carlos feels the presence of the man just in front of him like buzzing. There’s motion, and then a warm moist breath near his face. It smells strongly of sage, but underneath there’s something… fetid. Rank. Carlos winces, but opens his eye a crack.

He has an aquiline nose, white skin with a tawny undertone that implies he spends a lot of time in the sun without burning. His eyes have the flat dead stare of a shark. His cheekbones are razors and his jaw is angular. He wouldn’t even be mistaken as Carlos’s cousin.

“There, see?” The man grins broadly. “We’re acquainted, face-to-face. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you so well, and the results of your survey were _very_ informative! Are you aware of just how fascinating you are? I’m Luis, by the way.”

“ _Charmed_.”

“Your jaw muscles are tight and I detect a hint of insincerity in your tone, so I’ll wager you don’t really mean that. All this unwarranted hostility! I’m disappointed.”

“Fuck off _, mi amigo,_ what do you expect from me in this kind of situation?”

“Language. What would your _abuelita_ say? You know, if you don’t start behaving in a more civilized manner I’m afraid this conversation is going to go nowhere, and then _neither_ of us will have a very productive time of things.” He straightens. “So! For starters! I’d like to thank you for your patience while we waited to process you. I can’t imagine the kind of discomfort we must’ve caused you. There was a lot of tedious red-tape to sift through first before we could be granted access. Bureaucratic nonsense. It’ll be nice to leave _that_ behind, won’t it?”

“I want to speak to Egbert.”

_If interrogated…_

“Pardon?”

“Egbert. I want to speak to him. He’s the Secret Police Officer who monitors my apartment and I want to talk to him.”

“Hm, sorry, don’t think I can help you there. I don’t have leverage with that branch of Strexcorp. I’m just in Marketing and Research. Your “Secret” Police are more involved with Public Relations.”

Something must show in Carlos’s face underneath the anger and the fear, because Luis laughs. “What, what did you think of me? That I was some sort of CEO? Or God forbid, a Director?” He spreads his arms out to indicate the small, tiled, white room around them. “Do you think any of them have time or space enough to make calls on petty matters like this? No, no, I’m just a researcher. Like you! And yet, resoundingly, not. I, for one, never let personal inclinations get in the way of results. I also wouldn’t be afraid to _push_ the limits a little in the pursuit of inquiry. But, we can’t all be good at what we do, I suppose.”

“For someone who wants me to calm down and converse _rationally,_ you sure are being provocative.” Carlos grits out.

The man leans over conspiratorially. 

“I may also just be fucking with you.”

He reaches up and switches on the dental lamp, directing it squarely on Carlos’s face, and the housefly alights into the air, buzzing around frantically. Luis doesn’t seem to notice it; turns back around and Carlos can’t see what he’s fiddling with, even as he squints. His pulse thuds and he can feel it in the veins and arteries of his neck.

“I should give you kudos, I think! The analytics department was _really_ impressed with all the data you collected, really _excellent_ work by yourself and… Cecil, was it? It was great to have outside consultation on some of our work. The perception from inside the company can be incomplete sometimes… as you may guess, despite our best efforts, we sometimes focus on the wrong things. Third party verifications, even unsolicited and drawn to faulty conclusions, can prove useful! So thank you, Carlos.”

Even with his arms restrained – so he can’t raise them, you understand – Carlos is fairly certain Luis notices the two middle fingers being brandished in response.  

“… Ugh. Can I be frank?”

 _I thought you were Luis,_ Carlos thinks caustically, but he’s bone-chilled. Luis looms overhead once more. The light is blotted out by his being and spurts out from behind him in a hazy corona, like a classical icon of _Santo_ _Domingo_. His face is a study in shadow and his eyes are polished black stones.

“We essentially own this town, Carlos. We have the paperwork, and apart from a few technicalities and legal hoops that still need jumping through, Strexcorp is the main proprietor of virtually all tenable and untenable land in Night Vale and the surrounding area. We are the employer. We have dominion here; the law supports _us_. So you’ll forgive me if I’m more than a little unsympathetic to your cause… technically, you are all trespassers if the company says so. You will abide by our rules while using our property or you’ll be _shut down_.

“Do you want to know why you haven’t been dealt with more severely? Because my boyfriend has taken a passing interest in you, and because Strexcorp needs to verify a few things that requires some… sampling… of locals. You happen to be convenient and serve a purpose, and I won’t deny that you’re intelligent, resourceful... But elsewise, you are _dead weight._ You’ve proven you’d be uncooperative at best in our operation, a saboteur at worse,and either way you’re a drain on the system. I abhor little else more. So I _suggest_ that you stop _pissing_ me off, ¿ _comprende_?”  

“Now,” Luis continues, retreating once more to the nearby counter. “I’ve got just a _few_ tests to run, for research purposes, etcetera. Under normal circumstances you’d be provided with forms and such attesting to the purposes of and potential hazards related to the procedure, but... well. Unfortunately I deem you a liability, so standard procedures don’t exactly apply. But I can promise, it’ll hardly hurt at all.”

Luis turns holding a syringe and a scalpel, and his smile is radiant. Carlos is cold.

“Trust me. I’ve got this down to a _science_.”

 -

Carlos is awake and the television is on but there is no sound coming from it. He is awake, and there is a metronome somewhere, slower now. Syrupy. He is awake. He is.

He has to hold onto that, he thinks. He is.

Surprisingly, not much happened. He’s reasonably certain of such. His head is whirling like the centrifuge back in the room he came from. He feels strung apart, a double-helix unbound. Floating. Component links disengaged. A little like old tungsten filament in a glass encasement with an oily fingerprint on the bulb heating to flash point. A little like that.

He sleeps.

 -

He wakes.

It’s soft. Warm. Comfortable. Feels roughly 500-thread count.

He has new scars to go along with the ones from the miniature city under the pin retrieval area of lane five of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. Not many, only a couple – one on the inside of his elbow, the other on his inner thigh. Both punctures. A hard little weal.

The lighting is uniform, pleasing. The television is off and he shreds the few remaining pages of the T.V. show guide with fingers that ache in all the joints. It takes him ages to struggle into socks, a pair of faded blue jeans. There’s a quiet scream of metal at the door.

“Here ya go – this’s all you’re supposed to get, technically… but there’s a piece of invisible cake too, if you can find it! Haha…”

Carlos pries himself sluggishly from the bed and crosses to get dinner. The food tray bangs back into the door just milliseconds after his fingertips clear the opening and he shudders, head to toe. The toppings are mushroom and cheese and…

There’s no meat.

He levers sopping wads of cheese up from the dense gluten-free crust and peers beneath them, just to make sure. There’s no meat this time. But the mushrooms are bleeding. A fly hums down and lands, probing at the tomato sauce like a fingernail picking at a scab.

He blinks and the television turns on behind him.  
 _“Tired of all that PESKY concrete and plastic clogging up your life? Try going the NATURAL way! The NATURAL way! The NATURAL way! STREX it UP!”_

Carlos screams.

 -

He wakes to distant booms and running footsteps and yelling. He rolls in alarm and tilts himself off the bed, crying out when he lands and _everything_ erupts in pain. He scrabbles his hands on the bedside table, finds his glasses. There is an acrid smell in the room and the even lighting shows smoke uncoiling in perfect sinuous clouds against the ceiling.

He skims his hands over his head in his panic and feels… hair. He’s got stubbly sideburns and new growth along his jawline, nothing makes sense, there’s an explosion closer now…

A thump at his door, a tremor through the floor that gets echoed in every movement he makes. What’s happened to him? What’s happening? He snatches up a pillow and rips off the pillowcase, tearing at the fabric with his hands. Another thump against the door, a loud metallic clicking noise that’s abruptly cut off, he’s shredding the cotton pillowcase into long strips of material and winding it into something that might let him choke whatever breaches his room. The door judders and something falls heavily against it.

Carlos takes a defensive position just in front of the bed, fabric wound in his fists. The scars on his arms from the miniature city’s attack stand out, deep-brown, on the flesh of his arms; the door opens. Smoke gushes in and makes his eyes sting.

“Clear!” Barks an androgynous young voice, and a child wearing a red bandanna tied across her mouth and nose enters. She’s got springy red hair tied back in a high ponytail, what appear to be ski-goggles over her eyes; has a tank top and sweatpants on, and carries a box cutter in one hand and a grenade secured at her hip. Carlos has never been so relieved to see a sixth-grader in his life.

“Where’s Cecil?” She asks, eyes slits behind her goggles.

“I… he-” Carlos tries to say more but the smoke is starting to choke him. The girl rolls her eyes.

“Get down close to the floor, dummy. Is he here?”

Carlos shakes his head, tears streaming down his face as he crouches low. The air is clearer, it’s true.

“ _Crap._ Okay, we’re getting outta here. _COVER_!”

“COVER!” Someone in the hallway cries, before there’s a sound like a tin can being tossed onto the ground. A metallic clink, and suddenly a bang- the hall fills with additional thick clouds of gaseous smoke, but not the kind that comes from burning petrochemicals or celluloids. More like a fog machine.

“Let’s go.” Carlos distantly feels the girl grab hold of his wrist.

As they rush out, he sees a mangle of circuitry and shredded flesh. Latex and motor oil and blood intermingle on the floor just outside his cell (there’s an eyeball perched obscenely and absurdly atop the shattered remains of a machined skull), and a crumpled paper plate lies just beyond the destroyed android’s outstretched arm. The plate is covered thickly in flies. Then they’re into the smoke, and she delivers him through the mayhem.

 -

There is a man wearing a tan jacket and carrying a deerskin leather suitcase. Dust eddies and swirls around his feet.

Carlos by this point staggers upright, coughing helplessly into his arm in great expulsions of breath. The red-headed girl who led him out drops his hand, now, races to the black sedan the man stands next to. Carlos lurches after her.

“C’mon, E, we’re out, let’s go!” Her voice is shrill from adrenaline and stress. She tugs her ski goggles off with the snap of an elasticized headband, shaking her hair out. Three more children rush from the old mineshaft, looking behind them in one-two spurts. Smoke belches from the entrance, white and cloying. Somewhere a klaxon starts to wail.

“E!” The girl yelps again, hopping with impatience. She runs a headcount, holding the car door open as children pile inside.

“Hush.” The man says softly. “Please, Gwen, patience. I’m waiting for my girls.”

There’s something wrong with the way he talks. He hisses on the sibilants and pops his plosives, like he’s speaking around burning coals. Carlos is passing by him, can’t help his curiosity: he looks at the man’s face.

The man winks.

Carlos reels, black spots blooming in front of his eyes like scorch marks, falling heavily against the side of the car. Gwen hops out of the way.

“Oi, scientist, watch yourself!” Her words are harsh enough but her tone is level with concern. He tips himself onto the backseat like a drunkard and blearily stares out at the man. He’s unlatching the suitcase and holding it open: a cloud of flies lifts exultant from the hazy mine entrance and descends. The suitcase closes. The man turns on his heel and walks briskly towards them. Where he steps the gravel and dust float, temporarily, gravity suspended for an instant.

Gwen scrambles over Carlos’s lap and buckles herself in next to him. The interior of the car seems too large, has too many seats. The man in the tan jacket closes the car door; Carlos blinks and he’s in the driver’s seat.

The man twists around.

“Hello, Carlos.” He practically beams. “So good to see you again. I’m glad to see all the effort I’ve gone to keeping you alive so far hasn’t gone to waste. Has it really only been a year or so? You can call me Elliot for as long as you remember to. No one _ever_ seems to get my name right. I mean, _please._ Emmett? _Ernest?_ At least Everett has some potential.”

A thin whud-whud-whud in the distance.

“Whups, there’s the ‘copters! Let’s go, shall we?”

“About flippin’ time.” Gwen mutters.

Carlos faints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify: I don't think it makes sense that Carlos would have a double, even one constructed by the Sandstorm. Luis is not Carlos's double.  
> I was initially going to wait until I had the entirety of part two written before I posted any part of it, but it's been 2 months that I've been working on part two and... this chapter has undergone revision at least 10 times by now, so I think it's pretty well as good as it's gonna get. I don't want this fic to disappear into the ether of my mind. Or of the internet.  
> Thank you to formerlyanon of tumblr.com for the revisions, beta-reading, and for taking on an instrumental role in helping me plan out the logical differences between "re-education" and... the Strexier equivalent (after all, the Secret Police are working for new employers).  
> Critique, comments, and the like are all very much appreciated. As always, thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to tumblr users horrorchampharvey, formerlyanon, and unfunnyclownfish for acting as beta-readers for this chapter. I couldn't have written this much without you! Additional thanks to formerlyanon and aperplexingpuzzle for beta-reading the revised version of this chapter prior to me re-posting it; your input was very much appreciated : )
> 
> I initially posted this chapter on November 16th, 2013. After the broadcast of "Missing", I realized I hadn't given Cecil enough credit for how astute he is, nor how active in the affairs of the town. As such, I chose to delete the old Archived fanfiction and re-upload with this chapter. I wanted to rework the characterization, and I'm much happier with the results that you've just read! That being said, the rest of this fic will continue as I had initially planned, which means I'll be indulging a lot of theories I have about certain plot arcs that will surely be covered (with much more skill and complexity) in the show itself in the future. From here on out, as mentioned in the top-of-page notes, this is most certainly an alternate universe / alternate interpretation of canon events, and I hope you'll forgive me for tinkering around in Night Vale's world :) 
> 
> I have utilized the maps of cryingmanlytears (tumblr) to envision the town layout, which can be viewed here:  
> http://cryingmanlytears.tumblr.com/post/56076745790/okay-so-i-could-not-find-any-sort-of-map-or#
> 
> The portion of Cecil's broadcast included from Episode 36 "Missing" was retrieved from cecilspeaks.tumblr.com which acts as a transcript archive and is proving invaluable as a resource for making canonical tie-ins. 
> 
> Additional character tags will be added with future chapters; for now, I don't want to spoil what I've got planned, so mum's the word. Similarly, not all warnings are in effect at this time.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading.


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